


Role Models

by Jake_the_space_cat



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Cats, Coping, Depression, Gen, Mentors, Pets, Pre-Canon, Precinct 41 (Disco Elysium), Role Models
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:27:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29637399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jake_the_space_cat/pseuds/Jake_the_space_cat
Summary: Jean has a kitty.Wrote this for a prompt, it got too long, made the executive decision to write something *else* shorter for the prompt because I like this one the length it is.This likely takes place not too many days/weeks before the game begins. The timeline's kind of vague; roll with it.I tend to write in fragments and bounce around in time and AUs, so I've gota masterlist of chronology for all of my DE pieces here.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	Role Models

Caisson is short-haired, pitch black, gold-eyed, eight years old, and built like his namesake - a heavy wheeled cart loaded with materiel, an archaic word stolen from an old song. He’s not so much a lithe invisible shadow as a bump of asphalt, soft from absorbing sunlight all day.

His ID tag jingles softly against his collar as he lumps up onto the chair arm and stares at Jean, demanding acknowledgement. Jean ignores him, too busy looking through the window and the city beyond, focused on nothing. Caisson considers for a moment and then shifts down from the chair arm to settle like a warm lead weight in Jean’s lap. He tucks his paws under him carefully, squints his eyes, and begins to roar at the same subtle volume as the rough motor of Jean’s precinct-assigned MC. 

Jean finally looks down at him. Runs one hand across Caisson’s head, tugs at one ear. Caisson raises his head up into Jean’s touch, exposes his throat and chin. Jean scratches both, rubs under his collar. Tiny beads of drool form along Caisson’s lips. His eyes close and his purr hitches up in volume. _This is good. I am good. You are good. All is right with the world,_ his body language says.

Two years ago, when C Wing had begun to spiral down with Harry, when the mad energy Jean had counted on to pull him out of his own emotional inertia had turned radioactive - those had been the months when nothing had been right with the world at all.

Of course, Caisson doesn’t know anything about the day that went with the worst night of those months. He doesn’t know that Pryce had had Jean alone in his office for the fourth or fifth time in as many weeks, that Jean had felt like a parent called in *again* to see what they could do to avoid a repeat of that *last* time his teen got suspended. Caisson doesn’t know that Jean had had a shouting match in the parking lot with Harry afterwards like *both* of them were children. He doesn’t know that that had been the day Jean finally acknowledged what he saw in Harry’s eyes-- that Harry wasn’t even really feeling *anything* any longer, that he was just performing some muscle memory of emotion, that he didn’t fucking care, that, at least at that moment, nothing in the world mattered except his god complex and whatever chemicals were keeping him upright.

Jean’s pretty sure that all Caisson knows is that *that* night, Jean forgot to feed him on time.

Caisson had met Jean at the door. “Prrp”ed in greeting, wrapped around Jean’s legs, leaving black hair on black fabric.

Politely ignored the possibility of going out the door that Jean neglected to push completely shut.

Inquisitively followed along as Jean walked into the kitchen, stood there disoriented, walked into the bedroom, stood there again. 

Held off on complaining loudly and persistently about the fact no cans were being opened.

Watched with increasingly round gold eyes as Jean refused to do anything that resembled the usual routine. As Jean walked slowly, somnambulantly, around the worn old apartment, touching objects without looking at them, picking things up, putting them down, stalling out and standing blankly in the middle of the living room, eyes empty.

Tentatively, nervously installed himself in Jean’s lap when Jean finally sat down on the floor of his bedroom, alone in the dark. Curled up awkwardly. Attempted a thready and uncertain purr. Gained volume until he reached something close to his usual vehicular rumble. Pressed his head softly against Jean’s arm until Jean ran one hand, reflexively, across his head. Pushed the bridge of his nose up into the touch, exposed his throat and chin. Asked to have both scratched. Asked Jean to remember the routine. 

_Just do what you’re supposed to do, now,_ his body language said. _Make everything okay now, for me. Make it so there is nothing in this world as good as this moment, even if the moment before was uncertain and the moment after is uncertain. Please. This moment is good. You are part of this moment, and you are good._

_Be good. I am good._

_Please be good._

So Jean was good. He forced himself slowly back into himself. He sat with his stupid cat in his lap. Said Caisson’s name. Fed him. Undressed, running on something that went way beyond autopilot but was now slightly more than a pale static void. Showered. Slept. Got up in the morning and stalked off to his car. Off to work.

Fuck Harry du Bois. He’d keep C Wing together himself if he had to. He’d keep *himself* together himself.

If only because his fucking cat had expectations.


End file.
